Family Tree
by buildarocketboys
Summary: A triptych which deals with Martin's own traumatic relationship with his parents and how that relationship has or has not affect him and his relationship with Louisa and James Henry. i. Roots: Martin has a nightmare from his childhood ii. Branches: Martin and Louisa are all the stronger for their son, and Martin's fears are unfounded iii. Christopher Ellingham comes to town
1. Roots

It is the same dream, almost always.

He is in the cupboard, and his father has just locked the door behind him.

It is pitch black.

Usually his parents don't leave him in here too long - an hour at most, appropriate punishment for a ten-year-old who is still wetting the bed, still needy, still putting his foot in his mouth and offending his parents' friends on social occasions. Martin accepts it, knows his behaviour isn't good enough, promises to do better.

He never seems to meet their expectations, no matter how many times they lock him in the dark.

Tonight, however, everyone has gone to bed, and Martin begins to wonder when he will be let out.

By his estimation, an hour goes past, and then another. He starts to panic. He wets himself, which makes him panic even more.

They don't let him out until the morning.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and then he immediately feels for wetness on the sheets.

No. Dry. Thank God. The last thing he could bear would be to wake Louisa up by wetting the damn bed. He isn't a child.

He doesn't have the dream often anymore. He has only had it once or twice since James Henry was born. Stability and comfort in his home life, control of his work life, prevent nightmares from occurring. As well as the correct diet and not eating after 7, of course. But what had triggered this nightmare?

He turns to gaze at Louisa while he ponders this question, only to find her awake and looking silently back at him.

"Louisa," he says, in surprise. "I thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?" His voice is somewhat shaky, and he hopes she can't hear it, although he knows she can. She probably also sees the cold sweat beading on his forehead, despite the darkness of the room. She may not be a doctor, but she does know him very well.

"Nightmare?" she asks in a voice hoarse from sleep.

Martin makes a little jerky movement with his head, and then shrugs. "It's nothing," he says, staring at his sheets.

"It didn't sound like nothing," she says doubtfully. She sits up, the better to look at him. "You sounded quite upset." She leans forward, wipes a droplet of moisture from his cheek very gently. "Sweat," she asks, "or tears?"

"Both," Martin whispers, shamefaced, still not looking at her.

"What was the nightmare about?" she asks, very quietly, as if she is not quite sure if she is allowed to ask.

"When I was a child my parents would sometimes lock me in a cupboard under the stairs, as punishment. Sometimes I have nightmares about it." _About one particular time_ , he adds, in his head. _The other times weren't so bad. In fact, sometimes they were almost peaceful_.

Louisa looks horrified for a long moment, before she schools her expression into something more neutral. "I remember you saying," she says softly. Then: "Nightmares brought about by childhood trauma and abuse."

He is still not sure about Louisa's credentials in psychology, but in this case she isn't far wrong.

"Childhood trauma, maybe," he admits in a steady voice. "I'm not so sure I'd call it abuse. It was only one time."

Louisa wrinkles her brow. "You just implied it happened multiple times."

"Yes, it did, but there's only one time I have nightmares about!" He is irritated now. This isn't something he wants to have a conversation about - it's not relevant.

"What made that time different?" she asked, still in that voice, and Martin almost snaps that she should leave diagnosis to the professionals.

Instead he says, "you're not my therapist, Louisa," and gets out of bed.

"I know I'm not, Martin," he hears her say as he opens the door to the bathroom. "I was just trying to help."

"Well, don't," he says, and closes the bathroom door on her abruptly.

"I think it was the bedwetting," he says later, when he has emerged from the bathroom to find Louisa pretending to be asleep.

"What?" she mumbles, and he thinks that maybe she really is nearly asleep.

"James's bedwetting. That triggered the nightmare," he explained.

Louisa's eyes open. "What?" she asks, sounding decidedly less asleep but still confused.

"They used to send me to the cupboard whenever I wet the bed. Which was…often, as a child." He grits his teeth against the embarrassment.

"Oh," says Louisa, unsure what to say if she isn't allowed to censure his parents in the strongest possible terms for doing that to their child. To Martin.

"Incidentally, that probably prolonged my childhood bedwetting," says Martin, sounding almost conversational now. Louisa recognises the tone he uses when musing on a fascinating medical complaint. "Current guidelines state that punishing a child for bedwetting can actually make the situation worse. But thinking has changed since then."

"You don't say," says Louisa faintly.

"Anyway," says Martin, suddenly embarrassed that he has been musing about his childhood bedwetting in front of his wife. "I think we ought to get James a bedwetting alarm. That should help things out."

"Yes," answers Louisa, for want of a better response. "Good idea."

She doesn't mention Martin's parents again.


	2. Branches

"I was scared," Martin admitted. "When James was born, when we decided to...be together...that he would change things. Between us."

Louisa rolled onto her side in bed, the better to look at him. "What do you mean?" she asked. Then, to clarify, "why were you scared?"

"I changed things between my parents, when I was born. For the worse."

"Oh Martin," said Louisa, in that voice that meant she was emotional, and Martin hoped she wouldn't start crying. "That's not true."

"It is. My mother told me. She said that my father only saw her as a mother from then on. That she tried to get him back, sent me to boarding school and to Joan's house in the summer, kept me out of the way. But it didn't work. I was too needy."

"I'm sorry, she sent you to boarding school to _get you out of the way_?" said Louisa, and he thought that she probably sounded furious. Well, furious was better than crying, he supposed. "Martin," she said, and her voice had softened considerably, "you know none of that was your fault, don't you?"

Martin didn't answer. Instead he said, "but I don't feel like that at all, about James. He- I feel like I understand you better now we have him. He always comes first, but-" He stopped, unsure how to go on.

"But we both understand that, and...well, I can't speak for you, but I love you even more for knowing that. For how you are with him. Especially-" She paused, her lip curling, then decided to say nothing.

"No, what?" he said, doing what she always did to him. Wanting to know what she was thinking.

"I was going to say, especially with the type of role models your parents were," she said.

He grunted. "Well, your parents weren't exactly prime role models for child-rearing either, were they?" He can feel the old, familiar anger bubbling up inside him, the way he'd felt whenever Auntie Joan or Aunt Ruth had said something bad about his parents, even if he knew deep down that most of it was true - even though he was consciously trying not to be like his father. They didn't _know_.

"No," said Louisa, and for once she felt light about it, unbothered by it, because James had good parents who loved and cared about him, so it didn't matter who his grandparents were. He had them. And it was true, what Martin had said, she thought - even on the days when they didn't understand each other at all - and they still happened, occasionally, although they were few and far between now - they understood that James was the most important thing, that any argument or misunderstanding could be put aside for the sake of their son.

"Louisa," Martin said, after a while. They had fallen silent again, and Louisa had closed her eyes, but Martin could tell from her breathing pattern and lack of snoring that she wasn't asleep. "For the record, I feel the same."

"Hmm?" asked Louisa sleepily, blinking her eyes open. "Feel the same about what?"

"What you said earlier," he said timidly. "About loving...more."

Louisa smiled and closed her eyes. "I love you too," she whispered, forgetting she had already said that earlier (or perhaps not caring) and the last thing she remembered before she fell asleep was Martin kissing both her eyelids.


	3. Leaves

Louisa had just picked up her bag from the table when there was a knock at the door. She exchanged a glance with Martin, who was busy teaching James Henry how to make porridge.

"I'll get that on my way out," she said.

Martin nodded and returned to the porridge.

She opened the door to a white-haired, rather tanned man. He held out his hand to shake immediately.

"Christopher Ellingham," he said, and Louisa felt her heart sink. "The doctor's father."

Louisa took his hand reluctantly, and replied, "Louisa Ellingham. The doctor's wife," adding on the last unnecessarily. She forced herself to smile. "I'll just go and tell him you're here."

"Oh, so you're my daughter-in-law!" Martin's father exclaimed. He chortled to himself. "How on earth did he manage to bag himself such a beauty as you, my dear?"

Gag, Louisa thought, but didn't respond to his comment. "I'll just go and get him," she said, and turned away quickly before he could say any more.

"Martin," she said, re-entering the kitchen and sidling over to him so she could hiss in his ear, out of James's notice. "Your father is here."

Martin grimaced, and then looked down in panic at his son, absorbed in eating his porridge. "I don't want him to see James Henry," he said quickly.

Louisa nodded. "You go and see what he wants, and I'll send James upstairs once he's finished his porridge."

An expression of distaste crossed Martin's face, but he nodded. "All right," he said. "Won't you be late?" he asked, worried.

Louisa shrugged. "Not really. It doesn't matter."

"Punctuality is important, Loui-" Martin started.

She cut him off. "This is more important," she clarified, with a pointed glance at their son.

He nodded sharply and went to meet the man he called father.

It turned out his father was staying up at the farmhouse with Ruth for "a few days", although how long that would actually end up being remained to be seen. He endured his father's teasing (mocking) about managing to "catch" Louisa, whatever that meant, and reluctantly agreed to have dinner with him this evening, and to bring Louisa. On one point, however, he was very firm.

"James won't be coming - it's past his bedtime."

"Surely you could bend the rules this once to let him meet his grandfather?"

"No, I'm sorry, I really can't allow a break in his routine." It was true, in a way - James, just like Martin, liked to have a routine and could get very upset if it was interrupted.

"Well, very well then," said Christopher grumpily. "But I hope you will let me see the boy, Martin, before I leave."

Martin merely grunted, and they left it there.

Later, as Martin was taking James to school, he asked his father a question.

"Daddy?" he started uncertainly.

Martin turned his attention to the boy. "Yes?"

The boy took a deep breath. "Why don't you want me to see my grandfather?"

Martin paled. "You heard that, did you?"

"Yes, when I was eating my breakfast. I'm not deaf, you know."

"I know you're not," said Martin. "But we were whispering," he added.

"Well, I overheard," said James, unembarassed.

"Hm," was all Martin said, and they walked along in silence for a minute.

When they neared the school, however, James stopped walking and looked up at his father.

Martin paused as well, wondering what he could say to explain his need to keep his father away from his son, when he could barely even explain it to himself. "I just...don't know that he would treat you very well."

"Oh." James frowned. "But he's a doctor, isn't he? Like you!"

"He's a surgeon."

"Those are the ones who cut people open, right? Like you used to do, before your blood phobia."

Martin grimaced, although more from the lack of accuracy than the mention of his haemophobia. "That is...in essence what they do, I suppose. Although it's a lot more complicated than that."

"So are you worried he'll cut me open?" asked James.

"What? No. I didn't mean treat you badly like a patient...I meant...more like a parent."

Understanding dawned on the small boy's face. "Like the boys at school treat me badly sometimes?" he asked, his face falling.

Martin frowned. "Yes, I suppose."

"But parents are supposed to treat you nicely!" James exclaimed in indignation.

"They are," Martin agreed. "But plenty of people don't do the things that they're supposed to do."

"Did your father...not treat you nicely?" James asked, pausing before he asked it, as if he was not sure if it was allowed.

Martin sighed. "I'm sure he tried his best." Then, "but no, no he didn't."

James frowned. "Then I don't want to meet him," he said decisively, and that was that.

As Martin walked away from the school after dropping James off, he felt a lot lighter for some reason. He tried not to examine it too closely.

He and Louisa reluctantly got ready to go out and meet his father for dinner. Ruth would be there, which improved the situation somewhat, but neither of them were exactly looking forward to it.

Before they left, James asked his mother a question. He learned forward and whispered it in her ear, the better for daddy not to hear.

"Why is daddy going to see grandad, if grandad treated him so bad?"

Louisa turned to look over her shoulder at Martin, who was redoing his tie for the fifth time that evening. She sighed, taking in his tense, stiff frame, and turned back to her son. "Sometimes we have to do things we really don't want to do," she said. Then she thought about it again and said, "and sometimes we don't know any other way."

James frowned, clearly not understanding, and Louisa hoped he never had to understand. She kissed him on the forehead and said, "you'll be a good boy for Morwenna, won't you, James Henry?"

He nodded solemnly. "I'm always a good boy," he said seriously, and Louisa had to laugh. Martin turned around at that and made his way over to them, his posture relaxing just slightly.

"Good night, James," said Martin, allowing the boy to kiss him on the cheek. James's hand found his and squeezed.

"Night, daddy," he said quietly, and then they were heading out the door, and Martin was straight-backed and rigid again.

They got in the car, and Martin glanced at Louisa to find she was watching him, a strange look in her eye.

"What?" he asked, starting the car.

"You told him about your father?" she said, and Martin could not read her tone - not that that was unusual.

"Yes. He asked why I didn't want him to meet his grandad. Why?"

Martin watched out of the corner of his eye as Louisa looked at him and away, at him and away again, finally shrugging. "Just something he said, before we left."

"What?" said Martin, too quickly, turning towards her.

"He said-" her voice wobbled, but she cleared her throat and continued, hoping Martin hadn't noticed. Sometimes his obtuseness to emotions unless spelled out to him had its uses. "He said 'why is daddy going to see grandad, if grandad treated him so bad'?"

"Well, that's not at all what I said when I spoke to him. I said he did his best." He paused. "Louisa?" He looked over at her, and was shocked to see tears falling down her face. "Louisa," he said, alarmed. "Why are you crying?"

"Can you pull over?" she asked quietly.

"Of course," he said, doing so, leaving the lights on so any cars passing them parked on the dark grassy verge could see them. He turned to her, eyes wide and confused.

"James is right," Louisa said. "We shouldn't be going to see your awful father. We should go home."

Martin's brow creased in confusion. "Louisa, if you don't want to come and see my father, you don't have to, but-"

"It's not _me_ I'm worried about!" Louisa exclaimed.

"Me? I'm fine!"

"No you're not," said Louisa, quiet but intense. "You're not, Martin. You've been tense all day. And maybe you can't be honest with me about your relationship with your father, but you were honest with James. He treated you badly. He doesn't deserve anything from you, and you _certainly_ don't owe him anything." She finished, breathing and glanced at him, staring straight ahead again, hands clenched tight on the steering wheel.

"Even so, Louisa, I think we should-"

"Martin," she said, turning fully in her seat, forcing him to turn to look at her too. "Answer me one question: do you actually _want_ to go and see your father tonight?"

"No," he said, frustrated, "but that's hardly the point."

"No, the point is that you're going to go to a dinner with your father, which you don't even want to go to, just to have your him mock and bully and belittle you about everything, from your job to me to the way you're raising your child, the child, by the way, whom you're adamant he will not even _see_ , because you know he would hurt and maltreat and abuse _our son_ , because you know he hurt and maltreated and abused _you_."

"That word is thrown around so carelessly these days..."

"I am NOT THROWING IT AROUND CARELESSLY. I am using it in _exactly_ the context it is meant to be used in!"

Martin was quiet for a very long time, then. Then he said, "fine. Fine. You're right." He sat, staring at his hands, shaking on the steering wheel. Then in a small voice, he asked, "would you be able to drive us home? I don't think I'm in a fit state."

Louisa looked at his shaking hands, took one in her own and kissed it. "Of course," she said. They swapped seats in silence, and drove home in silence, a silence borne of too many hard truths voiced in one night.

When they got in, Louisa broke the silence. "You go up to bed," she said, placing a warm hand on Martin's shoulder. "I'll call Ruth, tell her we aren't coming."

Martin nodded. Then, with difficulty, he said, "Louisa, don't," he swallowed, voice scrabbling for the words. "Don't tell her."

Louisa gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, although she still felt like crying, a bit. "I'll tell her James has taken ill. Needs his doctor."

Martin smiled then, a small delicate thing, so out of place on his large features. "Thank you," he said, and then he was walking up the stairs, and Louisa allowed herself to have a little cry before pulling herself together and calling Ruth, whom she suspected guessed a lot more than what Louisa had let on.

Then she made her own way up the stairs, to find Martin standing over James's sleeping form.

"Martin," she whispered, slipping her hand into his, "come to bed."

"Yes," he said, dragging his gaze away from his son, to her. "Bed." He let her lead him to bed, pulling his pyjamas on automatically and climbing into bed. She switched the light off and climbed in next to him.

Ten minutes later, lying side by side in the dark, he reached for her hand. "Thank you," he whispered, so quietly Louisa wasn't sure that she hadn't just imagined it. He turned onto his side, settling, and somehow, miraculously, in another ten minutes he was asleep.


End file.
